


counting to fifty

by misssunangel, winchysteria



Category: Druck | SKAM (Germany)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Black Mirror Episode: s03e04 San Junipero, Canon Trans Character, Future Fic, Happy Ending, Heaven, IT'S A SAN JUNIPERO AU, M/M, Near Future, No established relationship, ish, okay i know it says major character death BUT, so it's not sad n shocking or whatever ANYWAY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 05:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18888202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misssunangel/pseuds/misssunangel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchysteria/pseuds/winchysteria
Summary: Nestled in the scenic mountains of a convincing imitation of Germany, Edenwald is the perfect place to get away from it all. Swim in the crystal-clear lake, hike in the lush forests, or, more likely, let your hair down at the famous Edenwald strip, a place thrumming with award-winning restaurants, exciting nightclubs, and thousands of your fellow partigoers. Choose from years like 1927, 1954, 1991, and 2018! We can't wait to see you in our little slice of heaven on earth.--a Davenzi au based on black mirror's famous San Junipero episode! because there is never a bad time or place for david and matteo to fall in love. probably.





	counting to fifty

**Author's Note:**

> **due to factors beyond our control, Sunni and i are no longer able to write this fic. We’re terribly sorry, but we’ll have to abandon it; from here on out you can read this as a one-shot. Thanks for reading!**  
> This is a collaboration born out of great love for both Davenzi and San Junipero. Elena (winchysteria) is the Matteo, and Sunni (misssunangel) is the David. We're having a great time with this and we hope you do too!!

The wet pavement is a wobbly mirror for all the neon lights on the Edenwald strip. Matteo can smell the remnants of rain in the air; he didn’t expect that he would.

God, but the place is detailed. The air also smells of—jasmine, maybe? And cigarettes, but only the nice, toasty part, not the bitter note that lingers on your clothing or your fingertips. It’s only minutes after 7 p.m., and the weather says summer, but the sun is already so low in the sky it makes him squint. He puts a hand up to hide his eyes as a group of girls stumbles past him, lost in laughter. They’re all wearing those skin-tight jeans and crepey crop tops and hoop earrings: he remembers that, now, the way girls sometimes seemed like schools of fish, dressing and moving in trusting response to each other. He notices the gap between the bottom of their shirts and the waistbands of their pants, a thin expanse of smooth skin that his own friends used to call the “magical mile.” Not that it ever distracted Matteo very much.

It all makes him miss them. This town, and the way everyone looks, but mostly the way Matteo feels. Capable. Clear. All his fingers and toes responding, painless, when he wants something from them. When he looks over through the plate-glass windows of the store next to him, his neck doesn’t complain.

The display inside looks hilariously dated: smooth white pillars topped with hand-sized cell phones, smooth white walls mounted with televisions playing oversaturated 4k. A generic-looking blonde woman argues with an equally-generic brunette over a photo of Lady Gaga in an enormous pink dress, and everything from the font of the ticker to the oversized white desk marks it as _back then_ . Or _now_. Matteo doesn’t know how any of this works.

He pats the pocket of his button-down, habitual. And god bless, there’s a joint rattling around in the bottom. They don’t let him breathe in real smoke, not anymore, but in Edenwald, those boundaries disappear. He lights it with a casual flick of the wrist that feels childhood-bedroom familiar, even if it’s been—fuck, ten years? Fifteen?

Then, in the crossfire between the drowsy neon of the club signs and the last delicate sequins of sun on metal and glass, Matteo sees him.

He’s walking backward into the street—not that that matters here, Matteo supposes—and giving a pleasant, detached, smile to a rumpled guy in a white t-shirt.

“Look, Carlos, do whatever you want, okay?” he says. “I don’t want to just go back to yours, no offense—I can see you any day of the week. We’re not here that often.”

And Matteo slows, thinking that Carlos looks kind of familiar. And then he— _that_ he—looks over.

He has a miraculous face.

The lines of his nose and cheekbones look golden, lovingly crafted, like a string instrument. He has dark, wavy hair sort of the same way roses have petals. Matteo wants to touch him more than he’s wanted to touch anybody in decades. His hands sing with the desire.

And the man is looking back.

He is looking back like he wants Matteo to notice.

“David, really? You’re going to be like this after last week?” Carlos pleads.

“What am I being like?” he—David—asks vaguely.

Matteo inhales, long and slow, ticks an eyebrow at David, and then exhales the smoke, somehow longer and slower. Their eyes are still locked, and Matteo feels a trace of pity for Carlos, because he remembers how this goes. He remembers.

But no, he tells himself. When was the last time you did this? Any of this? How are you possibly prepared for—for whoever this person is, after so long?

So he looks away, down the street, instead, taking another drag. The wind gently lifts his hair out of his eyes so he can see the businesses lining the strip. There’s a shiny-fancy bar across the street, the type that would have been too expensive for him as a kid; a diner further down, but he’s not hungry; and then, directly ahead, his saving grace. The entrance of Eve is unassuming, just double doors under an awning like a small theater, but music from the basement rattles the upstairs windows. The phrase they always use for Edenwald is “immersive nostalgia,” and it’s working now: this place looks exactly like every gay bar he was terrified to walk into in his twenties. There is a cheerful but frank rainbow sticker in one of the panes of the front windows. Matteo rubs at his eyes and tells himself it’s the smoke.

His body thrums, alive, and his mind is sharp for once, and he doesn’t so much decide to walk into the bar as he gives up trying not to.

 

It’s overwhelming. It was back then and it is now. But at the same time, it’s a good overwhelming, the kind he used to sink himself into on purpose because if the lights were flashing and the music was loud enough and there were enough people, his brain would fall quiet, occupied like a toddler with a new toy. He would feel connected to his body again.

He stands at the top of the staircase down into the bar and breathes it in: the smoke, the cologne, the tangle of conversations. The whole place looks like a memory. From the narrow brick stairs, Matteo passes by a bar first, with a mirrored back meant to make the place look larger, then a series of tables stocked with people flirting-performing-makingfriends, and then a pulsing dance floor studded with glittering revelers like moving jewels. Everything is placed low, from the ceiling curving overhead to the lights on tables and set into the floor. None of it quite feels like home, but it’s close, and he swims contentedly in whatever music pours from the stacked-up speakers, something poppy and encouraging and very 2010s. He slips into the crowd as well as he can, given the understated way he’d dressed and the overstated way everyone else did.

Then there, off to the right of the dance floor, he sees them, hunched over like old friends: row upon row of arcade games. Pac-Man, Mario Kart, Whack-a-Mole, some horrific Jurassic Park vehicle; the room itself is decorated the same glowy way the rest of the club is, but the blue-lit screens on the games are exactly like Matteo remembers. He gleefully makes his way down the aisles, tapping the controls here and there like a little kid. A girl with pale red hair like Hanna’s pats down her pockets for tokens in front of the Tetris machine; Matteo wishes he had some to offer her, and he suddenly feels the weight of a handful in his own jacket. She smiles gratefully at him when he holds them out to her.

It’s all so convincing except for the details like that. Little overperfections, like the fact that there’s a Zelda cabinet the next aisle over, something he is fairly sure never existed—not now, not in the early 21st century. Still, he thinks as he pops in a few tokens and waits for the game to load, he’s overwhelmed with relief that this is how it feels. Like he’s himself, but with all his faculties back, and without anything to get anxious about.

The 8-bit music twinkles familiarly. He fails his first few attempts, still trying to get a handle on the controls, but he finds that this doesn’t bother him. After a couple of minutes, his muscle memory comes back, and he slashes happily through the beginner levels in peace. Link looks a lot simpler than he had in the latest iterations of the game; the grumpy old man part of Matteo finds this pleasing. He’s thoroughly engrossed in the game when a blonde blur of a girl appears in his peripheral vision.

“Matteo?” she asks delightedly. “Is that you? I almost didn’t recognize you!”

 _Fuck_.

He considers pretending that he doesn’t know any Matteos. He considers pretending he didn’t hear her. But she’s stubborn if nothing else, and the way she draped an arm over his shoulders to watch his progress is just distracting enough to make him miss a platform and lose the game. He straightens and turns, resigned, to give her an uncomfortable hug. “Hi, Sara,” he says, rolling his eyes to the ceiling while she can’t see his face.

Sara is a pretty young woman, which is unsurprising, and her hair is tied up to set off the backlessness of her fuschia top. Hoop earrings glint in her ears. She is much happier to see Matteo than he is to see her. Foggy on the details though he is, Matteo is fairly sure that she’s twenty or so years older than him, and so he’s not quite sure how they’re in the same era. People hop around, he supposes. The late 90s might get boring after a while.

“It’s your first time, right?” Sara says brightly. “Why am I not surprised to find you in the darkest possible corner of this place?”

That might be funny if one of his friends said it, but the way Sara makes it sound irritates him. Overly-familiar, possessive, condescending. He just gives her a half-smile and fidgets with a handful of game tokens, studying the faces—a 1 on one side, an apple with a bite out of it on the other. It has the weight and color of a one-Euro coin.

“Well, come on,” Sara says impatiently, grabbing his hand and pulling him back toward the dance floor. “You only have a few hours before midnight; don’t waste them! Let me show you around.”

He knows that she’s been to Edenwald quite a few times already, maybe plans on moving there permanently soon. This is a kind offer, he supposes, and one he should take, but Sara turns as if to make sure he’s following her and he sees that thing in her eye, that glitter of the club lights reflecting off her want the same way they do off her earrings. And he understands, of course. Once a week, set free in this place, with their young bodies and their carelessness, that’s what most people want.

Not Matteo. Not with her, at least.

Sara’s ponytail swings in a shiny, objectively appealing way across her smooth shoulders, and she leaves a trail of floral perfume in her wake for Matteo to walk through. He rubs his nose, tugs her hand as she steps into the mass of dancing bodies. She rebounds easily back into his space. “Hey, I’m going to get a drink,” he says into the shell of her ear, carefully calculated to flatter her a little and keep her from looking at his face. “You go dance, I can get you something.”

He thinks he can hear her yell “okay,” but he doesn’t stop to make sure.

The bartenders here are all blandly attractive and frustratingly prompt. Matteo orders a beer, because he can’t think of anything else, and something made of fruit juice and vodka that’s theoretically for Sara, but he makes no move to return to the dance floor with them. Instead, he leans back against the bar and watches.

He was never a big dancer. He cut his teeth on awkwardly grinding with girls from high school, something that didn’t feel natural to him for a number of reasons; as a young adult, he just never caught on to whatever it was that made everyone else’s bodies respond naturally to the music. He was always trapped in the feeling that everyone would know too much about him if they saw him dance: about who he wanted to dance with, about how badly he wanted it, about how tenuous and unfamiliar his relationship was to his own body. He used to go to clubs, linger by the bar until he caught someone’s eye for long enough, go home with them if everything went well. But he didn’t dance.

Nobody here, it would seem, has the same hang-ups. People twist around each other easily, lost in a song Matteo remembers the rhythm but not the name of. Most of them are good dancers. One or two are really spectacular.

He picks at the label on his bottle as he watches one of the spectacular ones: dark-haired, black leather jacket that glitters with enamel pins—he can make out a trans pride flag, he thinks, a set of vampire teeth, a flower of some kind. The dancer has his hands on the waist of a tall blonde guy and does something with his hips that makes Matteo’s mouth dry. Matteo watches the line of his neck as he tips back the last few swallows of his drink.

It’s not until the dancer turns and locks eyes with Matteo that he realizes it’s the man from outside. The miraculously handsome one. _David._ In these lights, his eyes are darker and deeper, lids lower, and a few more strands of his hair float lazily around his face. David’s dance partner noses at his neck, but David doesn’t look away from Matteo. From his scalp to the soles of his feet, Matteo burns.

It feels like too much. It _is_ too much. He glances away, and his eyes skip over Sara in the distance—fuck. He turns back to the bar— _forget that guy, forget him_ , drops onto a barstool, and hunches his shoulders protectively. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes deeply, bargaining with himself about what he’ll do in Edenwald next week to make up for wasting his entire night with Sara.

When he feels a presence at his right elbow, he groans internally and scrubs a hand through his hair, mentally preparing to fake happy for the rest of the evening.

But then he smells something like burnt cinnamon, like perspiration and the inside of an orange peel, and his eyes fly open involuntarily to see someone who is certainly not Sara.

“Hi,” the dancer says, with a smile full of delight that borders on wickedness. “Is this seat taken?”

 

* * *

 

In a haze of smoke, multi colored fluorescent lights, and the laughter of many gorgeous people, each of their outfits looking like an abstract painting, David feels grateful to be alive. He catches himself blinking, as if he is blinded by all the things his senses are experiencing-- god, it’s that feeling that David finds incomparable to anything else, and no matter how hard he tries, he cannot find a way to capture it in the tip of his charcoal pencil while he is sketching or when writing a scene for his screenplay.

This sight is a welcome distraction from the fight he just had with Carlos, as is the drink he is holding in his hand. It isn’t even Carlos’ fault…he is a good guy and _very_ attractive, but he wants something from David that he isn’t able to give. Today, in particular, he was being very pushy and annoying, and if there was one thing David couldn’t stand, it was people pushing him to do something.

He knows this particular bar, where he has had many hookups, like the back of his hand. He never takes any of them home, though: that would be like letting someone into his brain. David shakes off the terrifying thought and walks closer to the counter, surrounded by silky red stools which he would almost describe as inappropriate for this era, but then he remembers. None of this is really real or really matters. He is just passing through life like a ghost, never leaving a trace anywhere that says “I was here and I lived.”  

Edenwald had a way of making David feel like that. It was the closest he had ever had to a home, and yet every day he found small reminders that life is fragile and nothing is ever eternal. He remembers when he came here and kissed someone for the first time in what must have been 20 years: it had felt exhilarating but also like his lips were just going through the motions, echoing the person he once was. No matter how beautiful the person he kissed was, or how skillful, David never felt the way kissing someone was supposed to make you feel. Those poetic words characters in movies used or the ability to make a person’s entire face light up...he had never felt that and probably never would.

 

David is just about to down his drink and get another one when he catches someone’s eye. That same someone he caught looking over at Carlos and him when they were fighting earlier. Their eyes had locked for a brief second which filled David with an intensity and longing stronger than any kiss he had ever had. The person in question is a man with messy dark blond hair, the kind that David would kill to run his hands through, and eyes in deep blue and grey tones, like an ocean during a storm. He can’t help but feel a little dizzy when he feels his gaze being returned, so he decides to walk towards him.

“Is this seat taken?” David asks, trying to give the man his most winning smile.

“No, uh, go ahead.”

“I haven’t seen you here before,” David points out.

“Yeah, I’m just checking it out.”

David moves closer to him, so close that he can almost feel their knees touching

“And what’s your impression so far?”

He doesn’t get to hear the reply. Instead, the man’s once-relaxed expression changes, and he mutters a quiet “Oh fuck!” under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” David asks, following the man’s gaze. A beautiful blonde woman with hoop earrings and a hot pink crop top is walking towards them, smiling.

“Ugh, nothing. It’s just this chick Sara who won’t leave me alone. I think she’s into me or something.”

“Follow my lead,” David says quietly.

“Hey Matteo, who’s your friend?” She points in David’s direction.

The man, whose name is Matteo, apparently, opens his mouth to speak, but David cuts him off.

“I’m David,” he says, sort of ignoring Sara’s attempt at having a conversation.

“We were kind of in the middle of something, you know?” he says, looking straight into Sara’s eyes as he slides his hand onto Matteo’s upper thigh, the touch so intimate it causes shivers to run down his spine. He can feel Matteo shaking too.

“Ah...okay...that’s gr—fantastic! Have fun guys, talk to you another time Matteo!”

They wait until she’s out of hearing distance before both bursting into laughter.

“Oh my god,” Matteo exclaims. “You were amazing! Did you see her face?” he giggles.

David doesn’t ever want to stop hearing this man laughing.

“Mmmhm,” David smirks, pleased with himself.

“So what’s the story with this...Sara? She seems very keen on you,” David says, looking Matteo directly in the eyes.

“Well for one thing, she clearly doesn’t realize that I’m gay, so. There’s that.”

David can’t help it; that comment kinda makes his heart race and he has to take a deep breath before he’s able to react.

“I think she knows now,” he chuckles and gestures to Matteo’s empty bottle. “Let’s get you another one.”

“Only if you have one too.”

David laughs. “There is no danger of that not happening, come on.”

Matteo settles in his seat at the bar, while David waves down the barman.

“I’ll have two vodka tonics.”

“Two vodka tonics coming right up,” the bartender smiles. He has red curly hair and freckles that cover the greatest portion of his nose.

When the drinks are finished, he slides them over the counter to David, a big smile on his lips.

“That will be 6€ and your phone number, please,” the bartender says.

Matteo is looking down into his drink, his cheeks flushed a light pink, and David can’t tell whether it’s embarrassment on behalf of the barman or jealousy.

“I’m flattered, but no thanks,” David says.

They both move a few seats away from the bartender and take a sip of their drinks.

Matteo is looking so attractive right now, it almost pushes the air out David’s lungs.

“So that guy was very eager too,” he says, his voice a little shaky.

“Wow, are you jealous right now?” David says, trying to suppress a wide grin but failing miserably.

“Shut up, of course not,” Matteo says, but he can’t look David in the eye.

“Trust me, there is only one person I would give my number.”

“Oh?” Matteo says so nonchalantly, David has to suppress another chuckle.

Matteo runs his fingers through his hair and catches David staring at his lips.

“What are you doing?”

David tilts his head and leans a bit closer to Matteo. “I’m regarding you.”

Matteo’s lips form a smile so bright it reminds David of the feeling of waking up to the sun shining on the lake at his house.

“I feel like I’m being...analysed,” Matteo says, his voice barely more audible than a whisper.

David’s eyes meet Matteo’s and for a second his mouth turns so dry he has to swallow. Matteo’s pupils are dancing in the light like fireflies flying through a forest during spring and the desire to kiss him is so strong, David has to bite his lip to restrain himself.

“So...do you live here?”

“No, not really, I just...”

“You’re a tourist?”

“Nah, it’s just my first night here.”

“First night in Eve or first night in Edenwald?”

“Both.”

“Well, we’d better make it worth your while, then.” David clinks his glass against Matteo’s.

The words cause Matteo to blush and David thinks it’s endearing as hell.

The music changes then, Troye Sivan crooning _oh my, my, my_ from the speakers.

“Oh my god, this song! Ok, come on, we have to dance to this,” he says, taking Matteo’s hand to lead him onto the dance floor.

“With each other?” Matteo asks.

“Uh-huh,” David responds.

Matteo groans. “I’m a terrible dancer, believe me; you don’t want to see it. It’s unbearable.”

“Now, now, I’ll be the judge of that-- besides, I can always teach you,” David smiles.

David rocks his hips to the rhythm of the music, his arms following along, Matteo meanwhile is just awkwardly swaying from side to side.

“Come on, you’re not even trying!” he exclaims and puts his hands around Matteo’s neck, grasping a strand of his hair.

“You just have to follow my movements,” he slides his hands down Matteo’s back and rests them on his hips, “and then... you just let the music do the rest.”

Matteo smiles nervously and starts to sort of mirror David, actually using his entire body.

“See, you’re getting the hang of it.”

And then they are dancing. David’s pulse races: he loves this feeling, forgetting your surroundings and just letting the lyrics and the beat take you.  
Matteo seems to be enjoying himself too, and when they get to the chorus, David steps up the speed, his hands not leaving Matteo’s body even for a second.  
Matteo slowly backs away, mumbling a short “I’m sorry,” and then he’s gone. David, still breathless from dancing, follows him and calls out his name, but Matteo is faster and doesn’t seem to hear him. David is grateful for his years of athletic training: even though he isn’t able to run like this anymore, the feeling of his feet lifting from the ground fills him with adrenaline.  Matteo’s trail leads onto the sidewalk in front of Eve, covered in an amount of rain that almost resembles a lake, the reflection of the moon piercing through it.

He spots Matteo immediately, leaning against a broken brick wall, his hair dangling in wet tangles from the rain while he exhales a cloud of smoke.

“Hey, why’d you run away?” David calls out to him.

“Sorry...I told you I’m not much of a dancer.”

David walks towards him and points towards his cigarette. “Can I have one?”

Matteo fumbles with the pocket of his jeans and pulls one out to give to David. “Sure.”

David leans against the wall beside him.

“Really...I’m sorry, I liked it a lot, it’s just-- people were staring and I...don’t feel like I’m the type of person people stare at.”

“That’s ridiculous. I saw you, didn’t I?”

Now they are both just smiling, daring one another to be the first one to say something.

It’s David who breaks the silence. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What would you like to do that you’ve never done?”

“Oh…” Matteo seems to be caught off guard. “So many things.”

David slides closer to him. “Edenwald’s a party town. All up for grabs. You can do anything.”

“Anything?

“Yeah and midnight’s two hours away.”

“That’s not long…”

David cups Matteo’s face in his hands, whose cheekbones are sharp but smooth like the marble of a Greek statue. He runs his thumb slowly along his collarbone, then trails down to Matteo’s chest. He swears he can feel Matteo’s heart racing through his ribcage as David whispers, “Why waste time sitting here?”

Any space that separated them is now gone and David feels almost high as he takes Matteo’s face in, the man’s features dipped in white and silver tones from the moonlight. To David’s surprise, Matteo takes his hand and holds it tightly as he leans in to kiss him. David returns it...at least, he thinks he does, because in that same second he can hear a door open and a girl’s laughter echo through the street. Matteo and David both pull away from each other and spin around only to see Sara standing in front of the bar.

“Hey...I was just looking for you,” she giggles, clearly drunk. “Isn’t this party just the best? Come on, we have to go dancing. All three of us.”

David looks at Matteo. “I better head home.”

Matteo looks at him, worried. “In this?” He gestures to the rain. “You’ll be drenched.”

“It’s fine, really. It’s been great to meet you.” David turns around to walk away from the bar.

“It was great to meet you, too,” he hears Matteo call. “Will I see you around?”

“Maybe,” David says, and with that, he disappears from the street.


End file.
